Not Quite a Home Run
by actingwithportals
Summary: Chell attempts to teach Wheatley the great American pass-time. It wasn't one of her more brilliant ideas. (prompt given by ask-the-mistakeorb.)


"You're holding it wrong."

Wheatley gave Chell a puzzled look, his gaze shifting between her and the long wooden… thing in his hands. He was holding it by the fat bit; that's where you were supposed to hold it, right?

Chell motioned with her hand for Wheatley to turn the bat around. After several more moments of confused glances and annoyed mutterings, Wheatley obliged and turned the bat over so that he was now holding it correctly.

"Right, got the holding bit down. Very important, that bit. Very, uh, fundamental to the progression of… yes what is it we're doing again?" Wheatley asked, still fumbling with the bat in his hands that was far too heavy for his flimsy arms.

"Baseball," Chell reminded him. They weren't in the most ideal of locations for the sport, having to make do with the small backyard behind Chell's home, but luckily it was surrounded only by large fields belonging to neighbors, aside from other homes with plenty of windows and personal items to be broken.

Wheatley had come a long way in adjusting to human life. He could manage cooking now without fear of bringing injury to himself or others, or better yet the home in which they lived. He also seemed to have a knack for fixing things, as surprising as it was. Though he was still clumsy with his hands, his mind did prove to be sharp in its own way, and he could process through difficult problems using solutions often too absurd to even consider. However, he still strongly lacked in a very basic area of life. Physical activity.

Chell had tried very hard to get him to be more physically active. However just getting him outside was difficult enough. He complained that the sun burned him too easily, which was true, but an excuse nonetheless. He also complained that sweating was too disgusting and he always had to shower immediately after, and showering was yet another thing he hated. But Chell was determined to get him outside. She wouldn't let him sit around indoors forever.

He had enjoyed some outdoor activities. Despite how things went on their first try he greatly enjoyed ice skating. He also loved going on long walks outdoors when the air was still cool. But now with spring in full bloom and summer coming closer every day, getting Wheatley outside became an unpleasant hassle.

But Chell would be damned if she didn't try.

"I don't know why we have to do this," Wheatley went on. "Honestly what's the appeal of throwing balls around and hitting them with sticks all day? It sounds… well it sounds rather violent, don't you think? Couldn't we find a better way to spend our time? Perhaps a gentler way? How about knitting? I hear knitting is a lovely activity. Still not entirely sure what knitting is, but the word has a pleasant ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Baseball is fun," Chell said, as if it were a matter of fact rather than a personal opinion. To be honest she didn't have any particular fondness for the sport, but it was enjoyable all the same. And Wheatley could benefit from learning how to play a sport. Unfortunately, she had a feeling soccer would be far too unpleasant for him to attempt considering certain… past life experiences.

And she hadn't painted her soccer ball to look like a certain blue-eyed metal orb in her more bitter days, that certainly had not happened.

"Fun for who?" Wheatley grumbled, eyeing the small cloth ball in Chell's hand with contempt.

Chell took several steps back. "Are you ready?" she asked, turning slightly to the side in preparation to give the first pitch.

"No," Wheatley squeaked, but he held up the bat as best he could in the fashion Chell had shown him earlier. His knees were wobbly and his stance was awkward and uneven, but it was the best he could manage.

Chell winded her arm back and gave a slow-moving underhanded pitch.

Wheatley swung approximately ten seconds too late. He watched the ball as it came closer, shrinking away to the side and attempting to swing for it long after it had fallen to the ground.

Chell shook her head and walked over to retrieve the ball. "Prepare to swing when you see me throw," she instructed him, hoping that his slowness would make up for the early start she suggested he take.

"I honestly do not see why this is in any way necessary," he continued to complain, crossing his arms and pouting.

"Just give it a try," Chell told him, grabbing the ball and retaking her position several feet away from him. "Again."

Wheatley made a better attempt this time, swinging several seconds too soon, but at least managing not to run away from the ball as it soared in his direction.

Things progressed like this for a while, Wheatley always swinging too soon or too late, but never managing to hit the ball. He was all ready for giving up -and made sure to be very vocal about this too- when finally, after what must have been the fiftieth pitch, his bat connected with the ball with a satisfying pop and sent it flying back to Chell.

He could feel his elation bubbling up in his chest, ready to give a victorious whoop, when suddenly he heard a very loud smack and watched Chell crumble to the ground.

"Chell!" he dropped the bat and ran over to where she had fallen, lying down on her side and holding her hand firmly to her face. Slowly, she raised herself to a sitting position, glaring up at Wheatley who was crouched down beside her. Her hand still covered most of her face, the palm centralized around her nose.

"Are-are you okay? Is anything broken? Oh, please tell me I didn't break you…" Wheatley stammered out, a sick feeling in his stomach beginning to grow.

Chell carefully removed her hand from her face and examined her palm. A bright layer of blood coated the inside of her hand, and a good deal of her face as well.

"Oh, that-that does not look good. That looks really quite painful, actually," Wheatley noted, wincing back at the sight of blood. "I'll run in and grab you a towel. Or perhaps a bandage? Water? That big red box with the cross on it that you always leave out whenever I go into the kitchen?"

Wheatley started to stand but Chell grabbed him by the front of his shirt, holding him down.

"Don't. Move." Chell slowly pulled herself to her feet, using Wheatley as a handhold. She made her way towards the house, once again holding her hand to her bleeding nose and not giving the smallest of glances back to Wheatley.

"… Should I just wait out here then?" he called after her, not daring to move from the position he held. Chell answered with a firm slam of the back door.

"I'll take that as a yes."


End file.
